


our once barren world

by belle_abroad



Series: infinity times infinity times infinity [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series), 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dungeons & Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Bard Wei Ying, Brief Mention of Medical Torture, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Memory Loss, Non-specific Asylum Content, Paladin Lan Zhan, Wei Ying constantly rolls dirty 20s, all character death canonical, they're mostly elves?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25023865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belle_abroad/pseuds/belle_abroad
Summary: Alternate title: Hanguang-Jun Had the Perfect WarlockWei Ying, moon elf bard, one hundred and thirty years old, finds himself the unlikely recipient of a past lifetime's worth of memories, a paladin "bodyguard", and a centuries-old mystery all at once.---Wildemount AU, based on the world ofCritical Role. Also loosely a D&D AU, sinceCritical Roleis D&D canon now. You do not need to be familiar with the plot ofCritical Roleto enjoy this story (I hope).
Relationships: (IMPLIED), Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén/Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn
Series: infinity times infinity times infinity [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1835410
Comments: 26
Kudos: 140





	our once barren world

**Author's Note:**

> An introductory note on setting: 
> 
> This work takes place in Wildemount, the imagined world of Matthew Mercer, dungeon master of Critical Role, which uses 5th Edition Dungeons & Dragons to define its laws of magic and combat. I have tried to obey those rules in shaping the story without making explicit reference to classes, actions, spell slots, etc. If you are interested in the character minutiae for Lan Zhan and Wei Ying, please read the end notes, which have spoilers for the below story. 
> 
> As far as Critical Role canon goes: the Dwendalian Empire and the Kryn Dynasty are at war. Each has developed and/or discovered dangerous technology with which to fight each other, and spies are just starting to bring those secrets across enemy lines. In addition to the battles over borders and trade control, it is becoming clear that both King Dwendal and Empress Kryn are seeking the prolonging of their own lives through a school of magic that deals with time and possibility. I’ve modified some Critical Role character names to better suit the world of MDZS—they’ll be obvious, I think.
> 
> If you are interested in Critical Role or Dungeons & Dragons, please feel free to comment, or follow me on Twitter at [@belle_abroad](https://twitter.com/belle_abroad). I will happily answer any questions you have! Also, also, this labor of love would not have been possible without the brilliant plotting mind of reinventweather, who has encouraged my questions and my rambling any time I needed. Get you a best friend who’s also your best fandom friend, because this was a staggeringly different document before she got her hands on it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Lan Zhan looks resplendent, dressed for battle. His white quilted tunic and trousers, his silver dragonscale breastplate and boots, his frost-white longsword and circlet. Against the deep blue-grey of his skin the fabrics and metals seem to glow, radiate from just around their edges. The effect is rather like a halo, thinks Wei Ying, just as he has time to dodge back from an incoming fireball attack.

“Lan Zhan!” he cries out. “Look out!” Never mind that Wei Ying hasn’t actually met this man before; he is moved by an inexorable force to defend the brave paladin gleaming in the growing smoke.

When he can see across the scorched field Lan Zhan is staring, wind whipping his white hair back, sword pointed down. Wei Ying panics and flings out a Scanlan’s Hand, scooping himself up in the giant purple fist and sending himself over to Lan Zhan’s side before making a rude gesture towards the wizard with the sulphuric fingers. “Don’t just stand there, Lan Zhan, fight or run! Fight or run! What are we doing!” He hums a few bars of a faintly remembered song, infusing it with inspirational energy in Lan Zhan’s direction with the few seconds he has.

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan croaks out, throwing up a shield to keep a sword from cutting into Wei Ying’s neck. “You know me, Wei Ying?” He steps around Wei Ying so they’re back to back and impales the man in the neck.

“I don’t know!” Wei Ying shouts. “But apparently we’re both on the wrong side of these slavers so I’m willing to take my chances on gut feeling!” He takes a deep breath to play a sharp, soulless note on his dizi and spike self-doubt into the slaver’s brain. Between the neck wound and the nosebleed, their closest attacker dies without a sound. Elsewhere, Wei Ying’s Hand squeezes a wizard until he pops.

A series of whistling sounds follows, as ten or so fleet-footed dark elves join behind Lan Zhan and surround the slaving caravan. It’s pure madness for a handful of seconds, but it lasts less than a minute, the bodies of thugs dropping unconscious one by one. Wei Ying drops the giant spectral hand and plays out a short healing melody for Lan Zhan, then turns to move down the hill with the rest of the Kryn warriors.

Lan Zhan grabs him by the bracer. “Wei Ying,” he grits out. “That is your name?”

Wei Ying nods, then pauses. “Yes,” he says. “But that’s not what people call me now.” He frowns. “You _are_ Lan Zhan?” This tall dark elf with the immaculately coiffed hair, with the intricate etching of clouds around the neck of his gorget, with eyes so dark and pupils so wide they could swallow the stars—he nods at Wei Ying. Wei Ying takes a deep breath and goes on. “Then—do you know what’s happening to me?”

He can’t quite tear his eyes away as Lan Zhan’s throat works to swallow. He should be looking into his face, but his neck is _right there_. He sways forward a little, catches himself—and Lan Zhan catches him too, holding him up by the elbows and cloak. “I know what’s happening to you, Wei Ying. Let me take you with me.”

* * *

They sit in Lan Zhan’s tent while the juniors sit watch, nodding their heads in a frenzy to obey the man they call _Hanguang Jun._ It is as endearing as it is perplexing to Wei Ying. The nascent feelings Lan Zhan stirs in him are all too similar to their blind adoration. They sit, and Lan Zhan pours tea, and apologizes that he doesn’t have wine with him this time, he wasn’t exactly expecting Wei Ying today.

“I’m sure I’ll live without,” Wei Ying says, baffled, conveniently forgetting that there is wine in his haversack if he wished for it. “Were you expecting me at all?”

“I had hoped,” Lan Zhan says quietly. “I dared hope.” Then he produces a small book, carefully bound, the clasp carved in the swirling clouds of Den Lan’s insignia. He flips open to an illuminated page of a dark elf woman with the body of a spider, towering over an assembled army. “Before the Luxon,” he says, “there was Lolth. Her reign was harsh and terrible. She split the dark elves from our brethren and enslaved us to her glory. We followed her into wars we could not win, sacrificing our bodies on her behalf until our numbers dwindled dangerously. Then, the Calamity, and the Divergence.”

Wei Ying knows of the Calamity; the scars of the war between the Prime Deities and the Betrayer Gods are written on every acre of the world. He sings a ballad of Ioun’s brilliance often, when he performs on the road. Still, he says nothing, struck dumb by the unwavering sound of Lan Zhan’s voice.

“The Divine Gate shut her away from us. We sought faith, then leadership. We discovered the Luxon.” He flips to another page, where a twelve-sided shape is rendered in mathematical perfection, beams of white light shining out from all sides. “It brought us guidance, and then it brought us life.”

Lan Zhan points to the corner of the illumination, the body of an adult elf levitating next to a tree trunk with a crack in it. Both are surrounded by that same burst of light. The Luxon presides over the middle. “We consecute ourselves to the light, and offer up our souls for reincarnation,” Lan Zhan says, and it’s nearly a whisper. Wei Ying sways forward, just a little, trying to hear. “We live again, as long as we die within range of a beacon of the Luxon.” He points again at the twelve-sided shape, and Wei Ying begins to understand that when Lan Zhan says _beacon_ , he means this. “The Dynasty possesses several such beacons, remnants of the Luxon’s material body, left here to guide us though he cannot. The light returns us to the material plane over and over again, until we reconcile our past lives with our intended purpose and ascend to _umavi—_ a person at one with their memories. I believe this is what has happened to you—that you are reincarnated, that your soul has returned to a new body, a second life. I believe I was there when you were consecuted, although I was not present when you died.”

Wei Ying is speechless, mouth slightly open. He’s just...he’s just a bard, he thinks to himself. He’s mostly just a bard. He’s a hundred and thirty already—how could he have lived before now? It feels impossible until he tries to meet Lan Zhan’s eyes and finds that instead, Lan Zhan is looking at his mouth—and that dropping sensation is unshakably familiar. He reaches out a hand to close it around Lan Zhan’s wrist, just to be sure, and he’s struck by a flash of memory—mouth to mouth, held fast. He lurches forward with a moan.

Lan Zhan catches him in a slick kiss, arms around Wei Ying’s waist, body pressed firm. It feels as if Wei Ying is floating in time, caught between the immediate sensation of Lan Zhan’s mouth on his and the absolute certainty that they’ve done this before. He flings his arms out around Lan Zhan’s neck and kisses until he can hardly breathe. Lan Zhan holds him steady, even as Wei Ying starts to buckle at the knees, and keeps him held when Wei Ying is able to push back enough to speak. “Sorry,” Wei Ying gasps out. “I’m really not usually this forward.”

Lan Zhan’s mouth quirks up on the left side. “You were once,” he says quietly. “It is welcomed.”

Wei Ying flushes at that, neck and cheeks growing warm. He preens a little under the attention, presses in for another, lighter kiss. Lan Zhan obliges him readily.

“It will be difficult,” Lan Zhan says, after a few more moments. His gloves are off, and he has a hand pressed on the curve of Wei Ying’s hip. Wei Ying tries to focus on his words, not the warmth of his fingers against the edge of Wei Ying’s leathers. “Memories will come upon you apace—quicker, now that you have met me again. They might be uncomfortable, or frightening. I cannot warn you about them—they must be experienced. I know many things about your life before, but you must live through your own emotions. And I don’t know everything.” Wei Ying nods. He understands—there is plenty about death that is impermanent, if you can find a priest and you have the gold, but every resurrection comes with rules. He wouldn’t want to hear Lan Zhan’s version of the life he led before only to realize his own feelings about it were completely different. Better to act on the feelings he knows are his own. Including this unwillingness to stray farther than a few centimeters from Lan Zhan’s side. “What I can tell you,” Lan Zhan continues, “is that you were wanted, then. And you are needed, now.”

Wei Ying nods again. “Well, I’m here,” he finally says. “How can I help?”

* * *

It turns out that war between empires comes with a lot of moving pieces. Lan Zhan is a commander of a small troop of Kryn from Den Lan, tasked with monitoring skirmishes by the border and seeking a missing beacon. There are rumors that it’s crossed over into Wendalian territory, that it might be as far as the Empire’s capital, Rexxentrum. So far, no-one has been able to get enough information to confirm. The implications of a beacon of the Luxon in the hands of King Wen Ruohan are serious enough that Lan Zhan’s face goes tight and pinched when he suggests the possibility. Wei Ying doesn’t quite understand, yet, but then he has a century of imperial propaganda rattling around in his mind to contend with.

Wei Ying has been to Rexxentrum, and Zadash, the trade center of the empire. He’s traveled up and down the Menagerie Coast, outside the Empire’s reach, listened to rumors in bustling Port Damali, in the refined entertainment halls of Nicodranas. He’s used to keeping mostly to himself, playing lonely songs in dim taverns, but he’s heard a few things about the men giving Wen Ruohan advice, rumors about the secret mages they call _scourgers_. He knows enough to realize that he’s of very little help to Lan Zhan right now, but he offers himself up anyway, and tells him everything he can.

“They’ve been looking for something far west,” he finally says, pointing at the map. “They say it’s around _Pride’s Call_. And what’s more, today confirms they’re buying slaves to do it. I don’t know how many beacons your dynasty has floating around, but if they have one, they might be looking for more. Might be looking to do their own consecutions.”

Lan Zhan looks stricken by the idea, and summons one of the juniors. “Send a message to Lan Xichen,” he says. “Immediately, not by messenger. Tell him this.” He dictates a few words, and the junior touches his hand to his lips, an arcane gesture familiar to Wei Ying’s own fingers. The reply comes through almost immediately.

“ _You must go, then_ ,” says the junior, Lan Sizhui. “ _Send the troop back, take only who you must. Be silent, be unseen, be careful. Tell me what you find._ ” Lan Zhan nods.

Wei Ying looks Lan Zhan up and down. “Is he really sending _you_ to spy? Lan Zhan. You look like a beacon yourself.”

“I have a charm of disguise,” Lan Zhan says. “And you will be there with me. Thank you for the compliment, Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying flushes with pleasure when Lan Zhan uses his name and nods. “I will be there with you,” he promises.

There is a small posting a day’s travel north of them, at the very edge of the Ashkeeper Peaks. They’ll need to stock up before they pass through, and send the bulk of Lan Zhan’s forces back to Rohsona, the capital of the Kryn Dynasty. Wei Ying waits for memories on the way, examining the dirt under his feet and the twisted trees of Xhorhas around him, but nothing comes. Now that he knows he has a forgotten lifetime to expect, he’s impatient, not least for the niggling feeling at the back of his mind that something about these beacons is very important, and he doesn’t know what it is. But Lan Zhan told him to wait, and so he does, as well as he has ever waited. He has never, in this lifetime, at least, been known for his patience.

When they arrive at the garrison, the juniors surround him—a coordinated attack. Wei Ying is impressed, although it leaves him at a low table surrounded by youths, Lan Zhan across the hall, dealing with their supplies. The gaggle of young elves (some of them aren’t much younger than Wei Ying himself) bring Wei Ying food and wine, though, so he entertains their questions as best as he is able.

“How old are you?”

“Where did you come from?”

“How long have you known Hanguang Jun?”

“Why is he so nice to you?”

“Do you know anything about poisons?”

He learns their names, their dens, their ranks and specialities. Lan Zhan leads a balanced party, Wei Ying finds, both martial and magical, and they deeply adore their commander.

“He’s the best,” sighs Lan Sizhui. “They say he’s peerless—no other holy warrior can come close. Once, early in adulthood, he got trapped by a dragon, and he _killed the dragon_ instead of just running away. Nobody ever takes on a dragon alone, even a young one, it’s too easy to die. But he did it.”

Lan Zhan appears shortly, frowning. “I was not alone,” he says, as if that is explanation enough. It might be, since Lan Sizhui blushes and stands up from the table. Around them, the garrison mess is nearly empty, Wei Ying realizes. When did that happen?

“Thanks for the company!” Lan Sizhui says to him. “See you tomorrow!”

Wei Ying waves as he scrambles away, and then it’s just him and Lan Zhan again, looking into each other’s eyes. “There are quarters provided for officers,” Lan Zhan says. “You will not need to rest in a bunk.”

They narrowly skirted this issue earlier. For all his matter-of-fact acceptance of Wei Ying last night (the sound of his voice saying _you are needed_ echoed in Wei Ying’s mind all day), Lan Zhan rested apart from him, an arm’s length between their bedrolls. Now he is saying that there is a suite for officers, but Wei Ying _isn’t_ an officer. “And you?” he finally asks.

Lan Zhan considers for a moment. “The process of reclaiming your past is already accelerated. I do not mean to…make things harder for you. The more often we touch, the more likely you are to remember, and I…I do not handle your pain well. I am loath to cause it.”

Wei Ying examines Lan Zhan’s face. He is so handsome, the stark contrast of white hair and dark purple skin, the jut of his throat against the collar of his tunic, the gentle slope of his cheeks. There’s a small wrinkle between his eyebrows. Wei Ying wants to rub it away. “And if I told you it was worse, without you? That it is harder to face it alone?”

Lan Zhan hesitates, then—“Hm.” He offers Wei Ying a hand to aid him rising, and it floods Wei Ying’s body with relief. He knows so little about his previous life it could shake him to pieces, but he’s certain of this. That Lan Zhan will catch him if he can, every time. They walk to the quarters together.

* * *

“Did you really fight a dragon?” Wei Ying asks, curled close to Lan Zhan under the coverlet. The bed is wider than a cot, but barely—he’s had to press up into Lan Zhan’s space to keep them from slipping off either side. Lan Zhan huffs something that might be a laugh, and Wei Ying feels it on the bridge of his nose.

“No, not alone. There were only two of us, though, and it was a narrow win. I couldn’t be positive the dragon died, as I ran.”

“Why did you fight it at all?”

“It had something we needed. A sword of remarkable strength. Retrieving it impressed the Bright Queen, and…” Lan Zhan trails off, until he is prompted by Wei Ying’s gentle nudge.

“And?”

Lan Zhan smiles wryly. “And you didn’t stop boasting about it for weeks,” he finishes. He has a hand in Wei Ying’s shirt, and it squeezes the fabric for a moment before slackening. “Claimed you’d killed it with a burst of death from your hands so I could escape. We were barely standing, but you looked so—I believed you.”

Wei Ying closes his eyes, breathes in the smell of Lan Zhan’s skin, and concentrates. “Yes, you did,” he murmurs, his mind picking up where Lan Zhan left off. “I didn’t lie, either—I was so angry with it for hurting you, and it kept trying to throw me away with its tail—I grabbed it with both hands and just…let go.” Black mist had risen from his skin, then, from his hands, and the dragon’s tail had turned to dust under his touch, a fine rot taking hold from the inside out. “I wanted to punish it for hurting you,” he whispers, and there’s something horrible in the memory settling, a dark curl of dread. “And something else,” he continues, chasing the thread even as it threatens to disappear. “Why was I so—” _angry_ , he thinks. _Why was I already so angry?_

Lan Zhan brings him closer, angling their bodies into a true embrace, gently tucking Wei Ying’s pliant limbs in against his own. “You do not have to force this,” he murmurs into Wei Ying’s skin. “It will come when it comes.”

Wei Ying blows out a frustrated breath, but he nods an agreement. He doesn’t like feeling angry when Lan Zhan is right here, holding him. He tries to relax into Lan Zhan’s arms, ground himself in the present. He hums himself a lullaby to fall asleep. His last half-conscious thought— _Is Lan Zhan singing to me?_ and then, quiet.

He dreams about his brother.

It’s as if Wei Ying has only blinked, and now he is standing in the courtyard at Lotus Pier next to his brother, swinging a wooden sword. They’re not children, but they’re not adults—this is before even Lan Zhan, Wei Ying realizes, trying to take in every detail. Training, with Jiang Cheng. “You could do it,” Wei Ying is saying, tapping the vulnerable places on a dummy with the point of his sword. “You could enter the priesthood if you wanted, like Jiang-shushu. We’d help you, shijie and me.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “I hate magic,” he says, with feeling. “And also, I don’t really worship the Luxon. Not the ancient god returning to rebirth the universe, at least. Pretty hard to be ordained as a cleric without any of that.” He’s also swinging out at a dummy with a practice sword, hard, so Wei Ying can hear the swish of air and the thwack of wood against straw.

Wei Ying shrugs. “I mean, you still _could_ , theoretically. But if you want to do something else, you should do something else. It won’t make you any less of a den leader, when the time comes.” He turns, interrupts Jiang Cheng’s next strike with his own sword, and grins. “Come on, let’s do something fun and dumb.”

Jiang Cheng lunges for him, childhood annoyance written in every line of his face, and the Wei Ying who knows this is a memory aches over it even as the Wei Ying of youth takes off running. They leap and climb over every obstacle they can find, running laps around the staff setting tables for dinner, until Wei Ying is laughing and wheezing on the boat dock, until Jiang Cheng is laughing too, that tensely written line smoothed from his face. Now he can remember the whole of this day—the horrible magics lesson, the sour twist of Jiang Cheng’s mouth. How Wei Ying’s antics had cheered him up for hours, bolstered him through their parents’ disappointed looks at supper. It’s the first memory he’s had without Lan Zhan, and when Wei Ying blinks awake between breaths, he’s struck by an ardent ache. He misses his family so much. What a horrible surprise.

* * *

It takes time to cross the Marrow Valley on horseback. Wei Ying dreams new memories every night, each morning bringing something to reconcile. All at once he remembers their years of training together at Cloud Recesses, a deluge of recollections anchored by the way Lan Zhan looked at him over their campfire the previous night. Other details trickle through slowly. It is disconcerting at first, but the more he remembers, the more fondly Lan Zhan looks at him, and it is easy work to grin back, and to mean it sincerely.

Lan Zhan altered his appearance to travel in the Empire, and now looks more like Wei Ying—dark hair, pale skin, finely pointed ears. They cut rather striking figures, actually, Lan Zhan in his pristine white, Wei Ying in his battered black, and for a while Wei Ying plays abstract swatches of melody on his flute, trying to write a tavern ballad about them for later.

“I’m still not sure I understand. Jin Guangyao is at the right hand of the king, now. Practically running the place, since Wen Ruohan is still somehow kicking around. Why did he send your brother a message, asking to meet?”

Lan Zhan frowns in response. “They were fond of each other, I think. I do not know if there is more to glean from it. Perhaps he merely wishes to see Xichen again, before our skirmishes become more pronounced.”

“Then you think his defection is genuine? Mine wasn’t.”

It’s the first he’s brought up of this…part of his last life, the time he’d spent behind enemy lines, conveniently exiled. He’s been dreaming snatches of it for days, held securely in his bedroll by Lan Zhan’s arm, and it stings a little to share, as though an acknowledgement of his past life will foreshadow darkness in this one. Lan Zhan cuts a sharp look in his direction. “Then you remember. Your life.”

“Some of it, yes. I remember an audience with the Empress after we fought the dragon—I think she was the Empress? Beautiful, dressed in white, massive fuck-off crown—and being asked what we would sacrifice to preserve the dynasty. I remember making a promise with you.”

They’d bowed before the Bright Queen, palms on the floor. They’d promised to risk everything, including their lives, if it would gain them the upper hand over Wen Ruohan and his Righteous Brand. Wei Ying remembers the rush of power that flowed through him shortly after, the fine thread of magic between him and Lan Zhan, not quite adults yet and still signing over their lives to the good of their country. Gods, they were young. Gods, he feels old.

“After that,” Lan Zhan says. “Do you remember what happened after that?” His features are schooled, almost impossible for Wei Ying to read accurately. But he _does_ remember what happened after.

Cut loose from the audience with Empress Kryn, they’d wandered the streets of Rohsona for a while, Wei Ying too anxious to go back to the barracks and sleep, Lan Zhan unwilling to leave him alone. They’d brainstormed a possible method of passing unseen through the Empire, seeking the secrets of Wen Ruohan’s implausible longevity. A human, more than a hundred years old? Unlikely. Clones, maybe; but those could be hard to maintain, and there was always the possibility that a body wouldn’t be ready, should the inhabited body die. Resurrection rituals could only go so far, and even then he’d still be old, so old for a human—Wei Ying had sent them around in circles at the tavern table, manic and insistent. He’d known that he would need new avenues of power to accomplish it, and that Lan Zhan would disapprove. He’d been working up the courage to say something about it.

Until Lan Zhan had laid a hand over Wei Ying’s wine cup, and asked the innkeeper for a room.

“You drew me a bath,” Wei Ying says, and sidles his horse a little closer to Lan Zhan’s. “And you washed my back until my mind slowed down.”

Lan Zhan nods. There are spots of color in his cheekbones, endearing against his unfamiliar skin. Wei Ying catches his breath.

Lan Zhan is so _beautiful_. Wei Ying remembers the first time Lan Zhan blushed like this, the first moment Wei Ying fell in love with him, flush-faced and grinning, sparring in the courtyard at Cloud Recesses. The burst of memory settles somewhere in his chest, and just like that, Wei Ying is so, stupidly in love with him again. As if no time has passed at all.

And there’s more. He remembers that night after their audience with the Bright Queen, remembers the moment his mind clicked in, realized that for all their grand plans of saving the world, they could afford this time together. And he wanted to do nothing without Lan Zhan, even then. He’d thought they were set to become heroes, clever and steadfast Dynasty generals, elevated by their own ingenuity. He’d thought they would always be able to stand together.

Wei Ying had laid a hand over Lan Zhan’s where it rested on the side of the copper tub, and brought it to his mouth.

“We should hurry,” Lan Zhan says, and nudges his horse into a faster pace. “Need to camp before nightfall, or face brigands.”

 _Oh no, not brigands_ , Wei Ying thinks to himself, but he follows. Something still isn’t right—Jin Guangyao’s letter to Lan Xichen still bothers him. There’s more to the problem, but he can’t put together what it is, memory still insufficient. For every radiant vision of Lan Zhan he gets, every heartrending memento of shijie’s smile, it feels like there are a thousand other memories, just out of reach. He’s sure there’s something important they’re missing. If he could only _remember_. They’ll just have to soldier on towards Pride’s Call, he supposes, and calculates their travel. A few weeks, still. If they’re lucky, if things don’t change. Long enough, certainly, to peel Lan Zhan out of that armor.

That night, he turns in Lan Zhan's embrace and tucks himself under Lan Zhan's chin, nose pressed to throat. "I feel like a fool," he murmurs, "for having not chosen this first. Seems like we'd never have parted, if I had. I'm sorry, Lan Zhan," he breathes, and though the silence yawns forever, falls asleep before he can hear if Lan Zhan responds.

* * *

Most of Wei Ying’s memories come at night. He is used to the strange way it feels, now, the dropping sensation that feels like dreaming. He always looks down at himself, to check. Yes, there is the dusk-purple skin, the dark robes, the battered priest’s breastplate. His magic crackles underneath his fingertips. He’s tired.

He looks around him, tries to match up his surroundings with what he knows. There are the Candles of Castle Ungebroch, the eight towers belonging to the Wendalian Empire’s cabinet, close enough that he’s on their very grounds, it seems. Further away to the south he can see the high spires of the Chantry of the Dawn, the Dawnfather’s temple. He is in Rexxentrum. Why is he in Rexxentrum?

“Wei Wuxian,” he hears, a hiss from around a shadowed corner.

He turns. There’s a woman in red robes and gleaming gold bracers beckoning him. _Wen Qing_.

The longer he dreams, the easier the memory is to inhabit. He darts forward. “Are we going?”

“Yes,” she nods. “I know where they’re being held. Are you ready?”

Wei Ying casts a furious look over at the castle, at the emblem of oppression and violence he’d love nothing more than to burn down. “Yes,” he says, instead of setting something on fire. “Yes, I’m ready. Do you have everything you need? No going back after this.”

Wen Qing nods. They move as quickly as they can without drawing too much attention to themselves, saddling horses and setting off. The asylum is several days’ ride from here, Wei Ying remembers, although in this nebulous space it is the work of only seconds to see the forbidding mansion looming over the horizon. Wen Ning is there, he thinks to himself. They’ve got to get him out. He deserves so much better than a cursed mind and indifferent nurses. He deserves freedom.

Wei Ying looks over at Wen Qing, who is flipping open the slats in her bracers to expose the long, thin scars on her forearms. _Refined residuum_ was sewn within, Wei Ying knew. A mysterious element from far West, embedded in Wen Qing’s skin, enhancing her magic. They'd forced it into her, held her down and pushed it inside, kept her restrained until it took root and grew, cancerous and encompassing. Until her body buzzed with it. He hates it when she has to use these, but it’s true—the trials had been to increase power, and they need the diversion to be significant. He rocks back on his heels, nods. Time to go.

He’s not _traditionally_ a quiet man, but he tries to keep his tarnished armor from clanking as he sketches out the best route in his mind, creeps along the side of the sanatorium to Wen Ning’s window. Behind him, Wen Qing casts her meteor swarm on the side of the building that isn’t housing her brother. Everything lights up in scorching, horrible flame.

Here in the memory dream, this tenuous reality, there are no bars to melt, no glass to break. Wen Ning drops out of his window, pale and anxious, carrying a small child, and Wei Ying grabs them both so they can go. They meet Wen Qing in the forest and prepare to leave, and when Wei Ying looks back on the destruction all he can see is the orange flames, licking away at the empire’s personal torture chamber, blasted to ruins. He tries to bring himself to care about the people left behind, but there’s nothing there. Vengeful, spiteful, he works his mouth and fires two green bolts of eldritch energy from his palms, into the burning wreckage. All he can taste on his tongue is blood.

He sits upright in the tent he’s sharing with Lan Zhan, back to the reality of his flesh-and-bone body, heaving. Lan Zhan is with him immediately, warm palm on his shoulder, nearly scorching through Wei Ying’s thin red tunic. “Wei Ying?” he asks, sotto voce, while Wei Ying tries to shake the horrible feeling of pure hatred in his heart.

“Yeah, I’m—I’m here,” Wei Ying manages, and leans back into the warmth. Lan Zhan wraps an arm around him immediately, and when Wei Ying drops his head back it fits perfectly in the crook of Lan Zhan’s neck. He wishes he could appreciate it more. “I need help filling in some blanks.”

“Of course. What can I answer?” 

Lan Zhan talks to him until dawn.

“You were sent to infiltrate the scourgers,” he begins. “To find out if they were using our magic, to create theirs. But what you found…”

Experiments, Wei Ying remembers.

He’d come across the Wens, the scourger programs, the sanatorium. Ruohan’s own people, enslaved to the pursuit of power. They’d been desperate for escape, and willing to help the dynasty, if they survived. Wei Ying hadn’t been able to turn them away, couldn’t bear to stand by and pretend it was all right for the Empire to use its own people for the technologies of war. And Lan Zhan hadn’t been there, to remind him of the value of patience.

And then the creature wearing Lan Zhan’s face had come to him in the night and offered him vengeance.

Wei Ying shudders now, leaning into the flesh and blood Lan Zhan, arms around his own knees as they hold each other up in the dark. He suddenly knows that he’s never told anyone about the pact, that if anyone ever asked him in his last life about the changes in his magic he would have brushed it off, wouldn’t have acknowledged it at all. But he’s here, now, with Lan Zhan, and why lie?

Why waste a second chance?

“I knew at once it wasn’t you, of course,” says Wei Ying. “It looked like you because it wanted me to let my guard down, and I wanted to hear what it had to say. But I never thought it was really you. The fey dress themselves up as us all the time, I’m sure. If they make it into the world, that is.

“So it offered me the chance to get what I most wanted then,” he continues. “I hadn’t seen you in so long, and I felt like I’d failed my promise to you, and I wanted to make it right—and also, I wanted to burn the entire fucking establishment to the ground,” he grits out, all in a rush of blustered air. “You never met Wen Ning but he was so _sweet_ , Lan Zhan, he was the kindest, gentlest person, and they ripped his mind away from him to keep their secrets and I only barely, _barely_ got it back. I couldn’t let them live, you have to understand. It didn’t seem like the price would be too high.”

“The price, being your soul, wasn’t too high?” Lan Zhan asks. He’s trying to be kind, but Wei Ying flushes with shame at the implication.

“I promise you, I thought it was worth it, then.”

Lan Zhan nods once against Wei Ying’s forehead. “All right,” he finally says, as if that’s the end of it. Maybe it is, Wei Ying thinks; maybe he _doesn’t_ have to explain it any more right now.

There is birdsong starting to peep out around them, as the light of dawn breaks across the horizon. Wei Ying never wants to leave. Lan Zhan has an arm around Wei Ying’s waist, a warm hand relaxed on his hip, squashed into Wei Ying’s belly by his gathered knees. He hasn’t shifted, not once, no restlessness or discomfort expressed while holding Wei Ying up, and it’s such a sweet gesture, so kind and thoughtless. It’s the kind of thing Lan Zhan does by instinct, around Wei Ying. He knows this. He _remembers_.

He wants to turn around and press Lan Zhan down into the bedrolls. He wants to throw over the whole enterprise and run away, lead them both into the wilderness and adventure for their supper forever, damn the Dynasty, damn the Empire. He wants, and he wants, and he aches with the wanting, and when Lan Zhan says “Wei Ying,” he blurts out an agreement before he’s even heard what Lan Zhan has to ask.

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly. “Yes, Lan Zhan?”

“We should pack up.”

“Yes, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying agrees, although it takes him a long time to move, uncurling his legs so Lan Zhan can let him go. Even this consideration pricks hotly at the back of Wei Ying’s heart, so lovely and patient he could shed tears over it. Instead—“I’ll try to remember more,” he says, and lifts up so they can dress.

“Do not strain,” says Lan Zhan. “You have done enough. You are doing enough.”

Wei Ying has to close his eyes. The residual guilt and anger of the dream still curl at the edges of his mind, even after all the talking. He doesn’t feel like he deserves it, but the warmth of Lan Zhan’s praise seeps into him, girds him for the day. “Okay,” he finally says. “Okay.”

* * *

They break camp. Wei Ying fully expects the way Lan Zhan moves in efficient silence, stowing his silver thread and covering the fire. His remembrances of Lan Zhan are clearer every morning, as if his previous life mattered only as much as it connected to this, the center of his universe. He knows the way Lan Zhan keeps his thoughts to himself. He also knows the way Lan Zhan avoids conversation to keep from sharing delicate feelings. This is the latter. But what could he be avoiding now, after speaking so candidly not an hour ago? What else could honestly be bothering—ah.

Wei Ying remembers now, what he said before drifting off. What he’d implied, and then ignored all morning.

“Honestly, Lan Zhan. Do you really think I would say it if I didn’t mean it?”

Lan Zhan is checking the saddle of Wei Ying’s horse. He stops, and turns around. “Wei Ying?”

“Or does it need to be more thoroughly spelled out? I remember enough of _you_ , Lan Zhan. I remember _loving_ you.”

Lan Zhan swallows. Wei Ying smiles wryly at the line of his throat as it contracts. “Wei Ying, there is no need to—”

Wei Ying arches an eyebrow. “No need to what? Confess my unrestrained, wild ardor for you? Muse aloud why you haven’t kissed me again since the first night we reunited, although you hold me every night? Wonder if, perhaps, handsome, kind, thoughtful Lan Zhan is trying to behave with decorum and respect, at the expense of his own happiness?”

Lan Zhan takes a step towards him, as if he’s been enchanted, and stops. “Wei Ying,” he says, and swallows again. His dark eyes are the same as they’ve ever been, soft blue light of morning catching the topaz in his irises, and Wei Ying can’t breathe.

But Lan Zhan has to come to him.

To Wei Ying it feels agonizingly long, each second stretching to capacity as he watches Lan Zhan’s few careful steps. It’s barely thirty feet between them, but it feels endless, a chasm of Wei Ying’s wanting. He feels it so acutely after only a couple of weeks—what must it have been like, to wait more than a hundred years? How can it be taking Lan Zhan so long, now?

Then the pendulum swings back and Lan Zhan has two warm hands on Wei Ying’s face, tilting him to adjust to Lan Zhan’s riding boots, and Wei Ying is clutching Lan Zhan’s waist, under the breastplate, where if he bunches his fingers in just the right spot he can uncover skin. Lan Zhan bends his head, Wei Ying pushes up, and they kiss.

He could live here forever under Lan Zhan’s attention, filthy and open-mouthed, held exactly where he is wanted. He feels himself blossoming like a lotus, his whole body unfurling towards the sun. _Hanguang Jun_ , he thinks to himself, and presses his fingers further around Lan Zhan’s waist. _The Bearer of Light_. He bears it; he endures it. He holds it steady, so Wei Ying can see.

When Lan Zhan pulls back, Wei Ying is smiling, pink and flushed. “Better,” he declares, as Lan Zhan clears his throat. “Much better. I think I can manage to carry on, now.”

“I forgot how shameless you could be,” Lan Zhan says, picking up Wei Ying’s pack and carrying it to the back of his horse.

“No, you didn’t,” guesses Wei Ying. He mounts the sable mare and looks down at Lan Zhan, who still has a hand on the horse’s bridle. Lan Zhan lifts his eyes to meet Wei Ying’s.

“No, I didn’t,” he agrees, and Wei Ying can’t help but smile and bend, bestowing another kiss.

“A reward for honesty,” he murmurs warmly, and draws back. It takes everything in him not to keep hold of Lan Zhan's gorget, try to tug off the straps, press him down into the grass and pretend they don't have anywhere world-shattering to be. But he does let go.

Across the valley is mostly farmland, interrupted by the central city of Zadash. They come in towards the city spires at dusk, just barely making the sunset curfew to get inside the walls for the night. "It's a good thing we didn't linger this morning," Wei Ying says, pushing his horse on a little further. "An inn will be _so_ much better than a campsite."

He’s been good, mostly, keeping his idle fantasies to himself even though Lan Zhan started to sweat a little around his collar earlier and it is _extremely_ distracting. Now that he remembers most of their relationship, knows how close they used to be, it frankly feels wasteful that they’re not sharing a horse, touching each other every moment, stopping under every copse of trees to “take a rest.” But an inn means a bed, instead of a bedroll, and a washbasin at least, and the idea of all of Lan Zhan’s skin laid out in clean sheets is an image just as arresting as Lan Zhan disheveled under a shady tree. Maybe he’ll convince him to disable the disguise charm. Maybe it’ll be Lan Zhan as Wei Ying knew him, before.

Not that it matters. They have an errand to run, first, and while ogling Lan Zhan in front of the Gentlemen has its appeal, Wei Ying would like to get it over with as quickly as possible, and skip to the ravishing. There’s security in knowing that every memory he has of Lan Zhan is suffused with the same overt desire he feels now, that his impatient ache to be touching Lan Zhan at all times is a part of this life _and_ his last. It feels so good to feel like himself, in this way. He knows he has many more memories to reclaim; approximately a hundred years’ worth, if he’s doing the math correctly. But he thinks he can manage it, if being with Lan Zhan still makes him feel like _this_.

Zadash, at least, Wei Ying knows; in this lifetime, he began his meager bardic career in these pubs, and as they amble through the colorful sprawl of the Outersteads, skirt the bustle of the Pentamarket, he feels himself relax, just a little. He knows the way to the Evening Nip better than he knows the way to his own small birth town, and Lan Zhan follows his lead in perfect silence. Wei Ying wonders if he will feel as comfortable when they finally return to Rohsona, if he will remember the twists and turns of the dynasty’s capital the way he remembers running through Zadash, ducking away from Crownsguard, finding new places to hide. Then again, he’ll have Lan Zhan there to lead him in return. Right?

He dismounts from his horse in front of the tavern and leads her to the closest hitch post. Lan Zhan is there before he can speak, long fingers taking the reins out of Wei Ying’s hands, deftly tying them to the post himself. Wei Ying flashes him a smile. “So polite,” he murmurs, just loudly enough that Lan Zhan can hear him. “You’re too thoughtful by half, Lan Zhan. I could eat you alive.”

“You’ll have to wait until after dinner,” says Lan Zhan, without a single change of expression, and Wei Ying is startled into laughter, burbling up from the heart of him. He’s still laughing when they walk into the quiet pub.

* * *

At the bar Wei Ying introduces himself as Mo Xuanyu, although the name sounds wrong in his mouth. At least he messaged Nie Huaisang ahead of time; the Gentlemen have never been averse to making use of an alias. “We’re here to see the Gentlemen,” he tells the long suffering bartender, who is dispassionately wiping a rag down the decrepit bar. “We have no coin for drinks, but we come bearing many gifts.” The dwarf’s mouth turns down, but he jerks his head towards the secret door, hidden behind a back cupboard.

“You know the way,” he grumbles.

Wei Ying does.

In the back room, the dingy bar and unpleasant smell give way to a richly paneled interior parlor, done up in black and green and gold. It’s empty but for the Gentlemen, each at their own small desk. Wei Ying sketches out a bow. It doesn't do to skirt politeness when dealing with Zadash's reigning lords of work done outside the law.

“Nie Mingjue, Nie Huaisang—thank you for agreeing to see us. Lan Zhan, these are the Gentlemen. They have information regarding the dig at Pride’s Call.” Wei Ying has always liked the Gentlemen, the brothers Nie; Huaisang is shrewd and blithe, Mingjue is pragmatic and unyielding. They make excellent contract facilitators, and they’ve always been good for a job, if needed. Wei Ying clears his throat.

Nie Huaisang stands, taking a folded envelope from the top of Nie Mingjue’s desk as he comes towards them. “Here—maps, and Crownsguard movements. But I have to say, Wei-xiong, I think you’d better let us come with you. I don’t like the look of those ruins they’re digging in.”

Wei Ying looks from Nie Huaisang to Nie Mingjue and back again. “…Really?” he finally asks, stepping one foot back just far enough that he can feel Lan Zhan’s boots behind him. Lan Zhan leans forward, a little, so his thigh is touching Wei Ying’s. It’s perfect. “Both of you?” Wei Ying continues, nodding up at Nie Mingjue. “Leave the Nip?”

Huaisang nods his head vigorously, hands folded over his fan now. “I can teleport us there tomorrow, and anyone else you might bring along. Wei-xiong—the amount of money that’s been funneled to this dig? It’s astronomical, and I can’t trace where it’s coming from. That kind of financial flow could significantly alter our business, you understand. We want to help.”

Wei Ying is about to make a charming crack about “the goodness of the Gentlemen’s hearts,” but he’s interrupted by Lan Zhan.

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, earnestly and serious. “My commander will compensate you, if we are able. For your time, and the components of your spells.”

Behind his brother, Nie Mingjue’s eyes narrow. Wei Ying has been the recipient of this appraising stare once before, and he does not envy Lan Zhan the scrutiny at all. But Lan Zhan bears it admirably, as he bears everything, keeping his gaze firmly ahead, unrelenting. Wei Ying catches a flash of Lan Zhan a lifetime ago, standing in between Wei Ying and an implacably disapproving stare, and adoration zings through him like a burst of fireworks.

“Deal,” says Nie Mingjue. Lan Zhan must have passed muster. Ah, but of course he did, thinks Wei Ying, smile brightening. “We will meet you on the edge of the city in the afternoon, and Huaisang will carry us forth.”

“We will be there,” says Lan Zhan. “There are horses outside. We will not need them, tomorrow; you may have them if you wish. Shod and saddle broken.”

It’s a good deal, and the Gentlemen know it—they both incline their heads, and Wei Ying and Lan Zhan bow back before turning to leave.

Outside, as Lan Zhan lifts their bags from the horses and helps Wei Ying into his haversack, Wei Ying asks, “should I find us some lodging? I think there’s a clean inn nearby.”

“No, thank you, Wei Ying. Follow me, if you would?” Lan Zhan holds out a hand for Wei Ying to take. “Only a short walk, I believe. If my memory is correct.”

“You’ve been to Zadash?” Wei Ying asks, slipping his fingers into Lan Zhan’s and matching his pace.

“Mm,” agrees Lan Zhan. “Once, yes. I came…looking for something. For you,” he says, after a breath. He’s not looking at Wei Ying. “I thought you might have been born human, or tiefling. I feared…I did not wish to waste time,” he settles on, and his gloved hand squeezes Wei Ying’s as he leads them along. It’s a very romantic thought. Really, just top-tier, thinks Wei Ying, and then he pushes Lan Zhan into an alleyway and kisses him, hard, up against the stone. Lan Zhan opens his mouth immediately, hauling Wei Ying up against him, licking Wei Ying’s teeth—as if he’s been waiting for exactly this. It sends Wei Ying into shivers, the idea that Lan Zhan has been thinking about this, might even have been thinking about it as he offered the Gentlemen horses and gold. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, shadow lengthening around them as the sun sets. When Wei Ying finally pulls back Lan Zhan is flushed, pale pink dappling his borrowed skin. His eyes are the same as they’ve ever been, looking at Wei Ying.

“I really like that, Lan Zhan,” breathes Wei Ying. “I like that I can do it whenever I feel like it. Kissing you feels the same as in my memory, did you know?” Lan Zhan shakes his head ‘no’, and swallows. Wei Ying takes pity on him, still in all his armor, and steps back, swinging them back onto the street. “Well, it does,” he carries on, as Lan Zhan quickens his steps just a hair, leading them through the cobbled streets of the Pentamarket. “Feels like I’m kissing Lan Zhan like I kissed him a hundred and sixty years ago, like I kissed him when we were kids. Can’t wait to kiss him some more, when we get to the inn. Where are we going?”

The streets are getting nicer, the closer they move in towards the center of the city, and after a moment the gates of the Tri-spire come into view. Wei Ying has only been inside the Tri-spire once, as a guest of Nie Huaisang. Usually he’s considered too _unsavory_ to be allowed inside the cocoon of Zadash’s elite.

Lan Zhan, of course, fits right in, and they swan through the guarded gate, hand in hand. (Well, Lan Zhan walks. Wei Ying swans, swaying his hips a little, shaking out his hair behind him, as soon as he realizes the Crownsguard aren’t going to say a word to them about it.)

“The Pillow Trove,” Lan Zhan says, after they’re through the gates. Wei Ying is looking at the street lanterns, flaring into life, reflecting off of Lan Zhan’s circlet, and it takes him a moment.

“Wait, really?” Wei Ying asks. The Pillow Trove is…nice. Much nicer than Wei Ying needs, or really deserves.

“You have an objection?” Lan Zhan asks.

“I guess not?” Wei Ying says, although it sounds more uncertain than he means it to. “We can stop anywhere, Lan Zhan, it doesn’t have to be the nicest inn in town.”

It is Lan Zhan who stops, then, and while he doesn’t press Wei Ying against the bricks, he does tug Wei Ying’s face up for one careful kiss. “I wish to take you there,” he says, and there’s a silky, reverent tone in his voice that Wei Ying has only ever heard in his dreams, before now. He nods, immediately.

“Okay, yeah,” he mumbles, and lets Lan Zhan keep walking. “You make a very compelling case for it,” he continues, and beside him he could swear he hears Lan Zhan huff a laugh. It’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

* * *

At the Pillow Trove, there is a room, richly appointed. Plush bedding, a window, a carafe of hot tea, laid only moments ago. Lan Zhan orders dinner in hushed tones and escorts Wei Ying up the steps, a hand pressed to the small of his back. Wei Ying abruptly feels that he might cry, ugly and in earnest, if Lan Zhan continues to be so lovely. And of course he _does_ , silently unbuckling Wei Ying’s armor straps and helping him shrug out until he's only in his tunic and hose. Wei Ying sets his hands to Lan Zhan’s hair, gentle and reverent as he pulls down the ornaments, the silver circlet. (He only hesitates a little to touch it, until Lan Zhan nods at him, eyes soft.) He’s less gentle when he moves to Lan Zhan’s breastplate buckles.

He knows there’s food coming. He knows that Lan Zhan doesn’t like to be interrupted. And he’s more sure than ever, now, that this silly thing is what Lan Zhan told himself to wait for. _I will not take Wei Ying until I can have him in a bed, as he deserves. I will not take Wei Ying until he tells me he wants me, and I can have him in a bed, as he deserves._

So Wei Ying, lifelong troublemaker, defined by his impatience—Wei Ying behaves. He lifts Lan Zhan’s breastplate and unbuckles his longsword with firm, practiced efficiency, as if only this is his goal. He hangs their armor on the provided stands. He rinses his hands and face quickly, and brings a cloth to Lan Zhan, avoiding the level, golden stare. He will do this correctly, he thinks to himself, and he sits to pour the tea.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying looks up, breath caught in his throat, and smiles brilliantly. There’s a knock at the door.

“Open the door, Lan Zhan,” he says.

It takes a long time for Lan Zhan to wrest his eyes away, and Wei Ying flushes with joy.

He is silent at dinner, because speaking is unnecessary at mealtimes. He tilts towards Lan Zhan, though, tucking a knee under the weight of Lan Zhan's thigh, leeching comfort and warmth from the point of their connection. Something indefinable thrums between them but it isn't urgency, not the familiar frantic need he remembers from _before_. Inevitability, perhaps. Perhaps this is the true power of the Luxon, he reflects, examining a belief that he held quite fervently once and has not revisited since. In times of great uncertainty, what could be more powerful to turn to than the promise of a second chance?

In any case, for Wei Ying, the question is academic. His memories have not come with an inexorable bloom of faith in this _deity_ of light so much as the _bearer_ of light. If Lan Zhan believes in the Luxon, that is enough. If Wei Ying has reaped the benefit of Lan Zhan's faith, well. He is a very fortunate bard indeed.

He has a moment to reflect on how furious the den elders will be to realize that Wei Ying has returned through unsanctioned consecution. The prospect of facing them is truly delicious to anticipate, and it makes him smile.

"Wei Ying?" Lan Zhan asks. There's more there: he says "Wei Ying," but he means _are you all right_ , _can I take care of you_ , _I love you still_. And it is not a test, precisely, to see if Wei Ying understands, but it is a hope, and Wei Ying hears that, too.

"Should I run down the hall to bathe, or will the basin suffice?" Wei Ying asks in response, all smiles. "We could call for a bath, I suppose, if you think we'll need it. If you'd like to do the big long soak I totally understand. Of course there's always the bathhouse option—maybe there's one that's open now, and we can both be—“

"Wei _Ying_ ," Lan Zhan says again.

This time, it is not a question.

Wei Ying throws himself into Lan Zhan's arms and allows himself to be quieted with a lengthy, imperious kiss. "On second thought, Lan Zhan, I think I'd like you to take me to bed. Would you?"

Lan Zhan lifts him with ease. He scans the room, to be sure that the door is locked and the window is shut, and then he flings Wei Ying onto the mattress.

Something swoops in Wei Ying. Every extremity feels cold, all at once, and then very hot, under Lan Zhan's scorching gaze. He starts undoing the buttons on his own tunic, suddenly desperate to have fewer layers between his skin and Lan Zhan's, even though Lan Zhan hasn't even so much as put a knee on the bed with him. In fact—

Lan Zhan is standing still, watching Wei Ying undress. There’s desire in his gaze, the thrilling darkness of hungry want, and Wei Ying slows his hands just a little, watching the way Lan Zhan’s eyes track the flick of every button. Wei Ying shrugs out of his tunic, wriggles gracelessly out of his hose, and points his toes, leaning back to let Lan Zhan look at him. 

Lan Zhan sweeps his eyes down, then drags them back up Wei Ying’s body. When their gaze meets, Wei Ying sucks in a breath—the look on Lan Zhan's face now is so horribly, purely adoring, Wei Ying could just _cry_.

He scrambles up onto his knees, artifice abandoned, reaching out. "Come here. Please, Lan Zhan. I need you here."

Lan Zhan is on him in a few quick strides, hands on Wei Ying's face, tongue in Wei Ying's mouth. He kisses Wei Ying like he's angry, hard pressure and insistent teeth, until Wei Ying moans and wraps his arms around Lan Zhan's neck. His skin is on fire where Lan Zhan is touching him, the whole long line of them pressed together, dick caught against the leather of Lan Zhan's trousers. Lan Zhan rips the thong out of Wei Ying's hair and pushes him back to sprawl.

Lan Zhan has more patience, Wei Ying remembers. He undresses himself _slowly_.

"Gods, I want you so badly," Wei Ying says, hoarse. "I think about it all the time. I know we're supposed to save the world tomorrow, but hear me out—what if we just did this, all the time, forever?"

Lan Zhan is down to his pants now, fine linen stretched across muscular hips, translucent at the head of his cock. "There will be time for that, Wei Ying." He drops the pants, eyes on Wei Ying's mouth, and joins him on the bed. "Tell me what you think about."

Lan Zhan bends his head to Wei Ying's neck and bites, gentle, until it's not.

"I think about—I think about riding the same horse. Not—not fucking on it, not usually, just—I think about the press of your dick in the small of my back. Your arms around me. I think about kneeling for you in the gravel of a dirty cave, adrenaline-drunk. I think about—fuck, this, I think about this, your mark on me, a hurt that _lasts_. Lan Zhan, I'm sorry, it's what—it's what I—“

Lan Zhan is still working on his throat, leaving coin-sized bruises, but he pauses when Wei Ying starts to stammer in earnest.

“Hush,” he says, gently, and kisses Wei Ying on the mouth again.

 _But it’s what I deserve_ , Wei Ying thinks, and flushes in shame.

Every time he thinks he knows how this is going to go, Lan Zhan surprises him. They neck for ages, until Wei Ying’s mouth is swollen and sore, before Lan Zhan changes the pace. Wei Ying is still hard, they both are, but Lan Zhan is holding him all the way down with his body and it’s nice, to just kiss him like this. To pretend like they have all the time in the world.

Maybe to Lan Zhan, it feels like they do.

He rolls his hips up, just once, and nips at Lan Zhan’s tongue. “I think about your fingers in me,” he says, meaningfully, and nods his head over to the clay pot at the bedside. “Please?”

Lan Zhan pulls back, studies his face. Wei Ying tries not to fidget.

Whatever he sees must satisfy, because Lan Zhan eventually nods and takes the slick jar to hand. Wei Ying watches him as he goes, and it’s like seeing him the first time, centuries ago, huddled under furs in a frostbitten cave, stunned and silent and yearning. Wei Ying parts his knees.

It feels—it feels _agonizing_ , honestly, too slow, fuck, but any faster and he’d probably die. Lan Zhan’s fingers are blunt and warm, and he says absolutely nothing, just watches his work while Wei Ying gasps. He thrashes for what feels like _years_ , accepting two fingers and three until his dick is leaking with it, flushed and purple. Until Lan Zhan nods to himself and says, “enough.”

“I think about your cock in me, Lan Zhan, _please_ ,” Wei Ying begs, and it might be the first time he’s said it and it might be the fiftieth, but it finally, finally gets him what he’s asked for. Lan Zhan crawls up to kiss him. He presses in.

And oh, god, if he thought the fingers were good-bad-wrong-perfect, this is—this is—oh, _fuck_. Lan Zhan is the most infuriatingly patient person Wei Ying has ever met in any lifetime and it’s unfair, it’s unfair to go this slowly when he’s aching, here, please, Lan Zhan, faster, more. And Lan Zhan hitches into him and rolls his hips, and Wei Ying’s head rolls back as his body arches, every muscle tensely engaged. It is the single hottest thing he thinks has ever happened to him. Lan Zhan holds him still and rolls again, this time with his hand on Wei Ying’s dick, and for a second, space-time ceases to exist.

Wei Ying is endless. He fractures into a thousand pieces of glass, anchored to the earth only by Lan Zhan’s cock inside him and Lan Zhan’s hands on him. He is a fragment of possibility, ricocheting through the universe. He is a newly burning star. All of him that is worth anything belongs to Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan bends down to kiss Wei Ying’s mouth, and fucks in again.

“Take all the time you need,” Wei Ying mumbles imperiously, and closes his eyes to feel Lan Zhan’s hips as they slide toward him. He reaches out, maybe to touch Lan Zhan’s chest, or curl around a lock of his hair, and Lan Zhan catches his hand, brings it up to his own mouth to kiss. Wei Ying could live here forever. “I could live here forever,” he says earnestly, and Lan Zhan’s entire face crumples as he jerks forward and comes, bowing over Wei Ying’s body like a felled branch.

When he looks up at Wei Ying, he’s weeping.

“Oh, my love,” Wei Ying breathes. “Oh, no, Lan Zhan. Come here. I am here. I am not going anywhere.”

They settle together. Wei Ying prestidigitates them clean, holding Lan Zhan's hand on his own chest, breathing in the scent of him as the magic wicks away sweat and come and the dirt of the road. They really don’t have time for a bathhouse, much as Wei Ying would like one, but this is more intimate anyway, his magic washing gently over every inch of Lan Zhan’s skin. As if he’s surrounding Lan Zhan completely. As if he can make sure Lan Zhan won’t worry that Wei Ying is gone.

He is so soft and pliant now, his Lan Zhan. Warm and still, absolved of the weight and armor of his responsibility. He is just a lover, here. Wei Ying aches. He should be able to look like this all the time. It’s more than worth saving the world for.

Lan Zhan’s eyes are still open, but his breathing is slow. Wei Ying kisses him on the head, right at the crown, and murmurs into the hair. “I’ll be here, love.”

Lan Zhan squeezes Wei Ying’s hand, and closes his eyes.

* * *

In the night, like every night, Wei Ying dreams. 

He finds himself in a barren crater, surrounded by corpses left long to rot. There are a thousand cracks and fissures in the earth—this land is wet only with blood, and the dark dust chokes him. He is crawling forward, past blades and bones, eyes locked on the glint of dull silver at the horizon. He can see someone standing there, at the edge of the cliff. He can see what’s in their hands.

A beacon. Fuck, it’s a _beacon_ , the shape with twelve sides as familiar to him as the sweep of Lan Zhan’s lashes. This is horrifying. This changes everything. He has to get home. He has to get _home_ , get to Lan Zhan’s side, tell him what to prepare for. If the enemy has beacons they can consecute. If the enemy has beacons, Wen Ruohan can just keep living, and the Dynasty and the Empire can throw themselves into a war that could destroy the world. The gods locked themselves back behind the divine gate to protect the world from themselves. How can Wei Ying protect the world from what mankind itself will do for power?

The figure turns, and Wei Ying realizes he’s been spotted. His heart drops.

He suddenly knows with absolute certainty that this is the moment he dies. Here on blackened, charred earth, a ruinous crater in the heart of a tangled woodland, thousands of miles away from anyone he has ever loved. Here, he is going to die.

The man with the beacon turns, and comes closer. Wei Ying had thought it couldn’t get worse, but there it is, the shadow of a dimple, bared teeth, a golden robe. _Jin Guangyao_.

Wei Ying’s mind has to work quickly. He considers what he knows as he drags himself up to standing, reaching deep, drawing on his last reserve of power. He cloaks himself in the armor of shadows. If he can hold out for a little while—yes. Armor of shadows. Mask of many faces. Fiendish vigor. He has the tools for this. He has what he needs.

In a matter of seconds he is shrouded in darkness and altered to look unremarkable, certainly not someone Jin Guangyao will feel remorse in killing. This is good, this is as it should be. If Jin Guangyao doesn’t know who he is, maybe something will slip. Maybe Wei Ying can send a message, with his last thought. Maybe it will find Lan Zhan. Maybe Lan Zhan can come and save the world.

“A survivor?” asks Jin Guangyao. Wei Ying smiles, pleasant but for the blood in his teeth.

“Not for long, I think,” he replies, and uses a burst of mist to dart away.

Here is what makes sense: Jin Guangyao wants a beacon. He is a recently acknowledged bastard. Den Jin is wealthy, but they chafe under the rule of Empress Kryn, at her seemingly-arbitrary laws of fairness and reparation. Den Jin likes to _take_. Jin Guangyao and Wei Ying are both in a crater, high in the north of the Wendalian empire, unmapped and unknown. But Jin Guangyao knew where to look. He’s alone. He _knew where to look_.

The frame of the plot snaps together in Wei Ying’s mind like the halves of his arcane focus. It isn’t for Wen Ruohan.

It’s for _Jin Guangshan_.

The leader of Den Jin is plotting a coup.

Wei Ying is running, bursting off blasts of eldritch energy as he’s pursued, getting a hit off every now and then. But Jin Guangyao is uninjured, and he keeps catching up to Wei Ying, following him over the ravaged landscape to thrust a dagger in Wei Ying’s back and then disappear away. It’s only a matter of time. Wei Ying closes his eyes, snaps together the pieces of his tiger amulet, and uses the last spell he has to cast _sending_.

 _Lan Zhan, I’m sorry,_ he thinks through the spell. _I never meant to leave you for so long. Be careful, be wary—I love you, don’t forget. Look to Den Jin,_ he gets out, just as Jin Guangyao catches up to him. Wei Ying drops his disguise in time to take the killing blow. Let the traitor squirm, knowing Wei Ying wasn’t a stranger. Let him fret. Let him hurt, and worry and fear discovery, all the way until Lan Zhan comes to take his head off.

That’s what Wei Ying is thinking about, as his soul leaves his body.

Lan Zhan’s reply to the sending spell is the last thing he hears—just his name, _Wei Ying_ , sounding for all the world like he shouted it at the top of his lungs. Wei Ying closes his eyes, and in a beat, he’s gone.

* * *

Wei Ying comes back to consciousness gasping, sitting bolt-upright among the silks and pillows. He’s so hot he feels like he could scorch the sheets, like a single touch would be enough to light the whole inn ablaze, and he throws himself out of the bed, stands naked in the center of the room, desperate for air. He sucks in deep breaths, pulls his hair away from his neck, trembling.

When he thinks he can manage speech, he looks over at Lan Zhan.

“Sorry,” he rasps out. “Nightmare.”

Lan Zhan is still on the bed, sitting up, feet on the floor. He’s so close he could catch Wei Ying if he fell, but not so close that Wei Ying feels closed in. He’s naked, and his hair is down, and Wei Ying loves him so much he could just burst of it.

“Was it?” Lan Zhan asks quietly. “A nightmare? Not a memory?”

Wei Ying closes his eyes. “No. You’re right. It was a memory. An important one.”

Lan Zhan nods. “May I touch you, now?”

Gods. Wei Ying nods helplessly. “ _Please_ ,” he grits out. Lan Zhan opens his arms and steps forward, holding Wei Ying between one breath and the next. He cradles Wei Ying’s head, strokes a gentle palm down his back. He kisses the top of Wei Ying’s head as though he just can’t help himself.

Wei Ying clings, unrepentantly, arms wrapped around Lan Zhan’s middle, face pressed into his neck, breathing in the smell of clean skin. There’s no reason for his heart to be racing, no immediate danger, and Lan Zhan is _here_ , not thousands of miles and a forbidding mountain range away. They’re so fucking _lucky_.

He clears his throat. “We can—I’m okay, now. We can sit. Open the window, maybe?” Lan Zhan nods and pulls back, palming the back of Wei Ying’s head and tipping him up for a kiss, first. Perfunctory, reassuring. The bed is only a few steps away, but he holds Wei Ying’s hand. He opens the window. Arranges the blankets. Waits.

Wei Ying tells him what he knows.

“Jin Guangyao plays a long game,” says Lan Zhan, when it’s over. “By the time Xichen and I could press an investigation, there was no evidence of any wrongdoing from Den Jin. Then, of course, the defection.” Wei Ying leans his head on his own knee, tucked up under his chin.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more specific in my message, Lan Zhan. I just—I missed you so much, and I wanted to hear your voice. I’m sorry you didn’t have the details sooner.”

Lan Zhan brushes a lock of hair behind Wei Ying’s ear. He’s so thoughtlessly intimate now, freed of politeness and propriety. His fingers trail down Wei Ying’s cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for, Wei Ying,” he says, quiet and solemn. “It was—I would rather have heard you, than not heard you. I am grateful you said goodbye.”

It hangs in the air for a moment. Wei Ying listens to the sounds of night through the window, the fading steps, the hushed whispers, the lonely call of predatory birds, and he looks at Lan Zhan. After a few endless breaths, Wei Ying turns his face into the hand Lan Zhan still has on his cheek, and kisses the palm. Lan Zhan sucks in a breath.

“As for Jin Guangyao,” he says, rasping it out, staring at Wei Ying, “we knew he was a traitor and a spy; now we know for whom. The dynasty possesses some four beacons, perhaps more, outside my knowledge. I suspect Jin Guangshan wishes to find another of his own, before he makes a move. Only reason I can think of, not to have tried already.”

“Give the Wendalians a beacon to stoke their anger,” Wei Ying says slowly. “Give them a proud defector, someone who gained Wen Ruohan’s trust, the trust of their councils and academies. Then, when he dies, Jin Guangyao succeeds him.”

“And Jin Guangshan can attack the empress from two fronts,” agrees Lan Zhan. “Our travel to Pride’s Call is essential, then.”

“We’ll need more help,” says Wei Ying. Lan Zhan is stroking a thumb over Wei Ying’s cheekbone. “We’re a good team, and the Gentlemen are handy in a pinch, but I don’t want to count on our fortune.”

Lan Zhan nods once, short and sharp. “I will give you names. You will know them, from your past life. Can you call on them, still?”

Wei Ying nods. “Three, each day.”

“Good. They will be able to travel here by tomorrow, I believe.” Then Lan Zhan smiles, a little rueful. “I thought I’d have a little while longer, before I had to share you with Jiang Wanyin,” he admits, and Wei Ying’s throat goes dry. “But your brother will be happy to see you.”

“Lan _Zhan_ ,” Wei Ying breathes out, and there’s a lump in his throat and tears shining in his eyes, but he’s grinning, flinging himself into Lan Zhan’s arms. “Take me back to bed,” he murmurs onto Lan Zhan’s mouth. “I can’t wait to save the world with you.”

* * *

Things move quickly, after that. Wei Ying spends a few messages as soon as Lan Zhan is sure it’s the right time in Rohsona, then meditates. By the time he's restored to himself, fed and armored, Lan Zhan's reinforcements have arrived and so have the Gentlemen, all of them congregating just outside the city gates as the sun is beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the rolling fields of the Empire. Wei Ying, for his part, flings himself into his brother’s arms before Huaisang can even begin to cast the teleportation spell, and hangs on.

When the _pop-squeeze_ of the spell is over, they are a few miles away from the town of Pride’s Call, and Wei Ying can bring himself to pull away. “Jiang Cheng!”

“Ah, I could just _kill_ you, Wei Wuxian! How could you not tell me you were going in to spy? You couldn’t trust me with that? _Me?_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Wei Ying says, and he’s laughing, and Jiang Cheng is laughing, and when a flood of memories comes with the embrace it’s welcome, even if it’s overwhelming. Training, and growing, and the sound of their sister’s laughter. Wei Ying feels so loved in these remembrances, emerges from the reliving of them warm and hopeful. He flashes a reassuring look at Lan Zhan, whose carefully blank expression has grown increasingly more worried the longer he isn’t touching Wei Ying, and leans on Jiang Cheng’s shoulders until he can face the rest of the reunion on his own feet.

Lan Xichen bows to him solemnly first, then introduces himself to the Gentlemen, and Wei Ying laughs some more and grips Lan Zhan’s wrist so tightly he can feel the pulse beneath his fingertips. He is terrified of the fight ahead. He is _so glad_ he isn’t alone.

It’s quick work to introduce the brothers Nie to Lan Xichen and Jiang Cheng; Huaisang casts an appraising eye over both of them and nods his approval. In the back room of the Evening Nip he plays the fool, letting Nie Mingjue’s size do most of the talking, but Wei Ying knows who makes their business decisions, and it gives him a burst of comfort to know that his brother passes muster. “I don't know if this will help,” says Nie Huaisang, and reaches for Jiang Cheng, dabbing saffron-scented oil over his eyelids and tapping him on the forehead with the tip of his fan. “I really don't, but it's worth a try, let me try. _True seeing_. For an hour, so we should get moving.”

Lan Xichen asks the Luxon for guidance, and closes his eyes. “Ruins,” he murmurs, and gestures. “This way. Not far.”

Wei Ying hoists his haversack and reaches out expectantly for Lan Zhan’s hand. “All right, team. Let’s go kill a dragon. It can’t possibly be as bad as a dragon, right? Ah, Lan Zhan and I are old hat at killing dragons, everything is going to be fine.”

“Wei Wuxian!” exclaims Jiang Cheng, joyful and furious, and Wei Ying grins until his cheeks hurt.

Lan Zhan takes his hand, of course. Then they walk.

It is not a dragon.

When they reach the ruins it’s full dark, the world cast into grey and black. They can hear the sound of pickaxes in stone, the soft murmur of men working. It echoes out from a cavernous entrance in the side of a hill, dug out and broken apart.

Jin Guangyao is walking in.

 _There’s that luck again_ , Wei Ying thinks to himself, and squeezes Lan Zhan’s hand. They creep in after, blissfully, miraculously quiet, following the _tap-tap_ of Jin Guangyao’s steps. Wei Ying is sweating, though the stone walls are cool. He can’t bring himself to let go of Lan Zhan. Then he tries, and only gets a millimeter away before Lan Zhan catches him back. Okay. That’s good. He can work with that.

He knows, of course, that this is a very dangerous time to be confronting an enemy like Jin Guangyao, who very likely is not going through the excruciating process of remembering a previous life while he seeks to take down the Kryn Dynasty. Wei Ying _knows_ , all right, he’s very conscious of his lack of power, his reliance on silly parlor tricks, his absence of any serious faith. Even more conscious of the way Lan Zhan looks at him.

“Promise me you’ll go fight,” he whispers, squeezing Lan Zhan’s hand. “I can take care of myself.”

“Debatable,” whispers back Lan Zhan. “I will not promise.” Wei Ying makes a wounded sound. Lan Zhan glances over at him, lips thinned. “I will not promise,” he repeats. “The further I go from you, the more I will worry. The more I worry, the more distracted I will be. Do not ask me to go far from you. I will not obey, and I would like to keep my vows, if it’s all the same to you.”

Wei Ying sucks in a sharp breath, then presses a hand over his own mouth to keep the sound in, staring up at Lan Zhan like he's never seen him before. Lan Zhan pulls him toward an alcove along the ruins and pulls his hand down, then kisses him once, hard and with teeth, scorching Wei Ying from the inside out. Wei Ying nods at him, after. “Okay. Lan Zhan, do not go far from me. I would like to keep our vows, too.”

Maybe the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to Wei Ying is that he didn’t have to remember Lan Zhan while they were apart. He doesn’t think he can hold any more longing in his heart, even with Lan Zhan right here, touching him; what must it have been like, to ache so endlessly without even the hope of the future?

They can hear droning, chanting. Something on the back of Wei Ying’s neck prickles, and then the bottom drops out of his stomach as they turn a corner and the ruin’s structure opens up.

“Look,” whispers Lan Xichen. “He’s found something.”

It’s true. From his vantage point behind a wide pillar Wei Ying can see Jin Guangyao putting something round, about the right size to be a beacon, into a pocket in his sleeves. This might be easy, he thinks to himself, taking a look at the handful of civilians, the few guards. Once the traitor is dead, they can grab the beacon and go home, and all of this will be over, and he can kiss Lan Zhan for a whole month. A year. A lifetime.

Then Jin Guangyao pulls out a set of pan pipes and a strange round contraption, and all hell breaks loose.

Literally, as it happens—there’s an echoing sound, like the tearing of fabric, and then the far wall of stone simply…opens up, letting out a scorching heat that reaches Wei Ying all the way on the opposite side. Jin Guangyao is playing the pipes, eerie and lilting, and out of the fiery inter-planar chasm steps the biggest pit fiend Wei Ying has ever seen. (He has only ever seen pictures of pit fiends in books, but still.) It towers over the miners, who have already started to flee.

“Kill them all,” Jin Guangyao says, his voice bright and echoing. He means the slaves, of course, he couldn't possibly know about Wei Ying's erstwhile party, but it's time to make themselves known all the same. They can't risk him getting away. Wei Ying squeezes Lan Zhan’s hand, and starts to run.

The next few minutes pass excruciatingly slowly. Wei Ying is first to act, grabbing Jin Guangyao with a spectral purple hand, the best spell ever invented, and squeezing the breath out of him. Lan Zhan is right behind, deflecting the guards and the thick chain of the pit fiend’s morningstar away from Wei Ying’s back as Jiang Cheng and Nie Mingjue flank it, pointing their intended paths to one another with shining blades. Huaisang vanishes from sight, although Wei Ying can hear him climbing up a crumbled wall for a height advantage, and then a burst of fiery energy comes from the place he must have concealed himself, arcing over towards the pit fiend. Lan Xichen heads towards Jin Guangyao, spiritual weapon coalescing above him, a massive white hammer with a wickedly curved edge.

“Give me the beacon,” Lan Xichen says, his voice breaking. “A-Yao, please.”

Jin Guangyao plays another sharp melody, eyes wide, and shakes his head. “Too late to stop now, Er-Ge,” he says breathlessly. Even now Wei Ying is plagued by the resurgence of a memory, a heart wrenching picture of Jin Guangyao staring adoringly up at Lan Zhan’s brother—but it disappears from his mind’s eye as Lan Xichen’s radiant hammer swings down.

Wei Ying is trying to focus. To conserve energy. Holding Jin Guangyao takes his concentration, but he scans over the field of battle, sends a pulse of healing music over to Jiang Cheng, spikes a guard in the mind with a well-timed insult, and keeps close to Lan Zhan. And then Jin Guangyao raises his hand, and a bead of green magic starts to well up at the tip, and it’s pointed right at Lan Zhan, and Wei Ying doesn’t think, just moves.

He plays out a counterspell on the dizi as he goes, but he’s not sure it’ll work. _Lan Zhan is gonna be so mad if I die again_ , he thinks to himself, and then the wave of necrotic energy washes over him at an angle and Wei Ying goes very, very cold.

The enormous spectral hand around Jin Guangyao vanishes.

Wei Ying falls to the ground. All he can hear is his own heartbeat, thundering in his ears.

Then, silence.

* * *

_There_ _isn't anyone for me but you, Lan Zhan._

_It’s okay. I’ll come back. I’ll always come back for you._

_As long as there’s a world to save, I’ll be there saving it with you._

* * *

Wei Ying is dragged back to wakefulness, the world roaring in his ears as he gasps and sits up. There’s blood in his mouth again, but Lan Zhan’s hands are on his chest, feeding him vitality, and Jin Guangyao is dead, eyes glassy and open on the stone.

“How long was I out?” Wei Ying asks.

“Seconds,” says Lan Zhan, and pulls him up.

There’s the pit fiend to face, of course, and shadows of something even more horrible swaying in and out of focus inside the rift. Work to do, yet.

“Okay,” he murmurs. Then, “I’m sorry.” Better that it’s said now, just in case.

Jiang Cheng has Zidian wrapped around the neck of the pit fiend, the crackling whip holding it still while Nie Mingjue batters it over and over, his massive sword cutting through muscle and bone, his eyes ringed with blood and rage. Wei Ying can help with this, he thinks, and sends a series of bright magical darts to follow after. “Gotta close the rift,” he shouts.

“Coming,” calls Lan Xichen, and applies himself to the churning mechanism. He’s close to Jin Guangyao’s body. Wei Ying tries not to think about why that must be.

The pit fiend falls to a knee, body heaving and sluggish, movements jagged and forced. Wei Ying has seen Huaisang use the _slow_ spell before—bless him, he gave up his invisibility to do it, perching on a pillar, hidden badly behind his fan. It gives Jiang Cheng an opening to drag the fiend down with Zidian, pulling it prone with a truly impressive show of strength. He holds it down so Nie Mingjue can cram his blade into the pit fiend’s neck, deep, black blood oozing out around their feet.

Then Wei Ying hears “Got it,” and the rift begins to fade. The seconds are excruciating now, the pit fiend gasping its last breaths and the heat in the room diminishing quickly. Wei Ying scans around, Lan Zhan’s back to his back. What’s left? Can it be over? Are they victorious?

The rift closes.

The pit fiend heaves a final breath.

Jin Guangyao’s body starts to move.

An echoing voice rumbles all around them, shaking the earth, knocking Wei Ying to his knees. “ _You have failed me for the last time,”_ it says, as a black mass of ichor starts seeping up through the earth, lifting Jin Guangyao onto lolling feet. “ _Face your punishment and finish your tasks._ ”

“Nobody’s pledged themselves to a questionable entity while I’ve been gone, have they?” Wei Ying asks, voice high and tight. “Because that went really badly for me the last time.” Many of his memories of his desperate pact for power are hazy, as if his mind is trying to protect him from them, but he knows what he was like at the assault on Vergesson Sanatorium to rescue Wen Ning, lit up from the inside out with rage and pain and fear. Now, in this new life, he wonders if the magic was even worth it.

The battered corpse of Jin Guangyao cracks its jaw open and laughs.

Wei Ying sees it first, the way the ichor bends and cracks the corpse’s bones. It crunches Jin Guangyao’s body horribly, molding it into a grotesque imitation of a tiger, the humiliating reminder of the failures of Wei Ying’s previous life, the Stygian seal he’d carried after he’d accepted the Entity’s offer. The hands lengthen into long claws, legs drawn up behind him as if preparing him to jump. The head bares its teeth, and they look like fangs in his human mouth. Wei Ying is going to be sick. They’re not going to make it. He’s going to die at the hands of Jin Guangyao once again. He’s going to die, and he’s going to take Lan Zhan down with him, and all of this chance at another life is going to have been _wasted_.

Lan Zhan touches him on the small of the back. Even through Wei Ying’s leathers the touch is arresting, insistent pressure, impossible to ignore. “Wei Ying,” he says quietly, and it’s just enough, Lan Zhan's rush of magic reinforcing his spine. He snaps back to himself. There’s a beacon in Jin Guangyao’s qiankun sleeve-pocket. It must be inter-dimensional, if it looks flat on the ground. If it’s torn, everything inside will vanish. They need that more than they need to kill this monstrous thing. If they die with the beacon in the sleeve, they can’t be sure they’ll return. If the beacon is out—better. Better odds, better chances. Wei Ying has always done better when he knows where to focus.

“Almost done,” he shouts. “The beacon is in his robe sleeve! Gotta get it before we go!”

“I think I’m going to _kill the monstrous tiger-beast, if it’s all right with you_ ,” Jiang Cheng hisses, and Wei Ying laughs, wild and terrified.

“Be my guest,” he calls back, and casts out his mage hand. The small one, this time.

The battle is beautiful, now. They’re tired, yes, but not so tired they can’t win, six against one eldritch horror. Wei Ying’s tongue pokes out between his lips as he tries to concentrate, slipping the barely-visible magical hand into the fold of Jin Guangyao’s bloodied robes. _Beacon of the Luxon_ , he thinks to himself, and pulls the object free.

It sails back towards him, landing in his arms, pushing him back against Lan Zhan’s chest. _Lan Zhan_.

Wei Ying is going to kiss him so _much_.

Lan Zhan wraps his arm around Wei Ying’s waist and yanks him back, just in time to avoid a spurt of hot arterial spray, thick and inky. Jiang Cheng has his sword deep in the neck of the tiger, and his eyes are lit up with adrenaline and Huaisang’s magic. He looks incredible. He looks like a general. He twists the sword out, and the thing’s head goes rolling.

It stops at Wei Ying’s feet. He has a chance to look one last time on the glassy eyes of his murderer, the distorted teeth, the wide open mouth. It still has dimples. Then, all the parts of Jin Guangyao’s former body just…turn to ash.

Suddenly, everything is quiet. All Wei Ying can hear is his own ragged breathing, and the gentle clink of Lan Zhan’s armor beside him.

“Now aren’t you glad I didn’t leave your side?” Lan Zhan asks mildly into the silence. “You have a terrible sense of self-preservation.”

“Oh no, please don’t,” says Jiang Cheng, just as Wei Ying turns in Lan Zhan’s arms and kisses him soundly, hugging the beacon between them. He flicks two rude fingers in Jiang Cheng’s direction with his mage hand. He deserves to act young and petty, he thinks to himself. If he’s earned anything in his two lives, it’s this.

* * *

“We have to talk about what happened, with the counterspell,” Lan Zhan says as they’re leaving the ruins to make camp. It’s full night now and the moon is out, glinting off of Lan Zhan’s circlet, his hair. He looks beautiful. Wei Ying is having trouble walking, because he keeps staring.

“Yes, I suppose,” he agrees. “Although we both know what happened there, and that it’ll probably happen again.”

Lan Zhan cuts a look to the side that approaches a sneer, which is so impressive and delightful Wei Ying can only grin back. It is the meanest expression he has ever seen Lan Zhan direct at him. It is also absolutely gorgeous, as usual. “Do we? Both know what happened there?”

Wei Ying hums an agreement. “We were saving the world, and I knew what he was sending your way. Ugly stuff, blight spells. Only had a moment to react. I regret nothing.” Lan Zhan frowns. “Well. I regret making you sad. Especially since we won, and I feel _amazing_ now.” He paws at Lan Zhan’s breastplate, starts walking backwards to accommodate himself. “Don’t you feel pretty good? We stopped a war today.”

“We protected the Dynasty today,” Lan Zhan corrects. “There is still a war.”

“There will _always_ be a war, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying breathes. “Hey, come here.” He swings Lan Zhan behind a tree, for more kissing.

Lan Zhan obediently kisses back, pushing Wei Ying up against the tree trunk and opening his mouth. Wei Ying curls his fingers in Lan Zhan’s hair, holding him in place, and concentrates on the slide of their tongues until he’s sure the rest of the party has moved on ahead.

He pulls Lan Zhan away, gently. Lan Zhan sways forward a little, then back, then presses his forehead to Wei Ying’s to breathe.

“I am sorry,” Wei Ying finally says. “You told me you didn’t handle my pain well, and I still stepped in front of you. I will _try_ not to do it as often.”

Lan Zhan exhales. A fraction of his shoulder tension, however infinitesimal, relaxes. It charms Wei Ying, that he can tell. “Thank you,” he finally says. “That is enough.”

He does not let go.

“We shouldn’t fuck in the woods, right?” Wei Ying finally asks, hands on Lan Zhan’s neck, thumbs stroking just behind his jaw. “It’s definitely bad form to have a forest quickie when our brothers are pretty much _right there_.” Lan Zhan exhales a breath, frowning, as if he’s actually considering it. Wei Ying laughs. “No, don’t give in. Plenty of time for bedroll sex for the rest of our lives. Let’s just camp, so we can go home faster. I love you, you animal.” He pulls Lan Zhan away from the tree.

When they catch up, Nie Huaisang taps Jiang Cheng on the shoulder. “Twenty gold,” he says, and outstretches a palm. “Told you they wouldn’t do it.”

Lan Zhan looks carefully impassive, but Wei Ying is delighted. “You bet we would, really, Jiang Cheng?”

His brother is scowling. “I just said it wouldn’t surprise me to hear you,” he sniffs, and hands over a small gold pouch to Huaisang. “Didn’t think you’d hesitate to try my already _extremely generous_ patience.”

Wei Ying laughs. He’s full of the adrenaline of a good fight, the effervescent joy of Lan Zhan’s lingering touch, the burbling promise of a peaceful tomorrow. He loves his brother. “Oh, I didn’t think one whit about you overhearing us, didi. But how would I face the Gentlemen again, after being so rude? I simply couldn’t _bear_ to embarrass _them_.”

He’s grinning. Even Lan Zhan’s small smile is as wide as it goes. Wei Ying wants to remember this moment forever. He wants to lie under the stars with Lan Zhan’s hand clasped in his, and listen to his brother laugh. He wants to dance, and sing, and raise a cup to their victory. He wants, very suddenly, and more strongly than ever, to go _home_. Rohsona. The small house he lived in with Lan Zhan for a time, before everything went to shit.

Nie Huaisang is casting something, a long spell that reveals a shimmering door when it’s over, black and green and gold just like the back room at the Evening Nip. “Well?” he asks, preening a little, and it’s charming. “Anyone up for a night in a real bed?”

“No way,” breathes Jiang Cheng. Wei Ying snorts a helpless laugh—his brother is the same as he has always been, and Wei Ying is suddenly surprised and grateful. They all troop quietly into the pocket dimension, welcomed into a magnificent mansion by unseen servants all conjured by Huaisang’s spell. A safe place to sleep. Wei Ying feels suddenly exhausted, and he casts his grateful gaze over the lot of them, incredulous and fond. These are the men who came to help him, these brothers, all. He could be swept away by the gratitude he feels, now. He can feel the tears already welling up.

“You should rest,” Lan Zhan says, as Wei Ying drifts forwards and back, caught between his bone-tiredness and his sudden need to weep all over Jiang Cheng. “Come here, with me. Thank you for your hospitality, Nie Huaisang.”

“Mm,” Wei Ying agrees, following where he is led, down a short hallway and into a plainly kept bedroom. Lan Zhan undoes his buckles and clasps with silent efficiency, manhandling Wei Ying’s limbs as they become more and more uncoordinated. “We did something good today, Lan Zhan,” he murmurs, as Lan Zhan helps him sit on the bed, then kneels to unlace Wei Ying’s boots. “Can we do something good again tomorrow?”

“Of course, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says in return. For a moment Wei Ying just looks at him, spends long seconds trailing his eyes down the line of a lock of Lan Zhan’s hair, before he finally reaches out to touch. Lan Zhan closes his eyes, leans into the place where Wei Ying’s knuckles brush against his face. “We can do something good every day,” Lan Zhan continues, eyes closed. Wei Ying adores him. “Boots off, first, though,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying lifts his feet so they can be removed.

“You, too, right?” Wei Ying asks. “You’ll be here with me?”

Lan Zhan looks up at him again. “I will be with you _always_ , if you wish it, Wei Ying. There is nowhere else I want to be.”

Incredibly, instantly, Wei Ying is no longer tired, and he lifts his tunic from the hem. “Take off your clothes,” he says, grave and serious. “We’re not in the woods anymore. Take off your clothes and fuck me _right now_.”

Lan Zhan does.

Lan Zhan takes off his breastplate and armor more quickly than Wei Ying has ever seen, laying it all down on the dresser next to Wei Ying’s. He comes to Wei Ying in his linen pants, feet bare, dark hair falling around him like a shroud. He brackets Wei Ying’s body with his own, kisses him long and deep until Wei Ying is gasping, slow and steady and as good as it gets. Lan Zhan is a scorching weight against Wei Ying as he works further on the ring of bruises around Wei Ying’s neck, left just yesterday. They show up differently on this skin, the purple blooms of Lan Zhan’s wanting, but they feel the same as always, like a promise, like a vow.

“Please,” Wei Ying is saying, “please, Lan Zhan,” over and over, knotting his fingers in Lan Zhan’s hair, kissing him wherever he can reach. Lan Zhan gets a hand under Wei Ying’s back and lifts him bodily, pushing Wei Ying’s hose down so roughly they tear. The sound of it wrests a long moan out of Wei Ying’s throat in response. He didn’t even know it was there.

And then Lan Zhan’s pants are gone, and Wei Ying’s hose are torn, and they’re moving against each other, cocks caught up in one of Lan Zhan’s large hands. Not fast, not slow—just right, the perfect pace for Wei Ying to feel every inch of the slide. He has his hands up at Lan Zhan’s face now, one wrapped in the hair at the base of Lan Zhan’s neck, the other on his cheek, thumbing the bone. “Beautiful Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying murmurs, lifting himself up to kiss the corner of Lan Zhan’s mouth. “I didn’t know how much I could miss you.”

Lan Zhan speeds up the slide of his hand, rolls his hips back and forth, presses his forehead against Wei Ying’s. He is breathless and groaning, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, a picture. Wei Ying wants to immortalize him in song. He kisses Lan Zhan again, instead.

Wei Ying is starting to feel the exhaustion setting back in. His whole body aches, so the slow contraction of his orgasm starting feels like the crescendo of an ocean wave, pain and pleasure rocketing through him all at once. He flings his head back and cries out. And then Lan Zhan is coming, too, spilling sticky onto Wei Ying’s stomach, heaving a dry sob into Wei Ying’s neck. Wei Ying shivers and lets out a sigh, hears the echo of it in Lan Zhan’s noisy breath out. “Come here,” whispers Wei Ying, gently shoving Lan Zhan under the duvet, leaning over to pinch out the last few candles, pushing through his fog one last time. Lan Zhan blinks at him slowly in the darkness, big solemn eyes looking steadily on at Wei Ying.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan sighs out when they’re suitably arranged, curled towards each other on the mattress, hands clasped between them. It sounds like _I love you_.

Wei Ying presses forward, kisses him gently, just to feel the warmth of his mouth. “Yes, Lan Zhan,” he says, the only answer to a question that hasn’t been asked. “I’m right here.”

* * *

Magic makes travel simple. Nie Huaisang has never been to Rohsona, but with the clever use of some mind magic Lan Xichen can impart an image of the Lucid Bastion’s teleportation circle. They all make the trip in seconds, arriving at the stronghold of the Kryn Dynasty with a thump, the Gentlemen vanishing back to Zadash moments after. Wei Ying could vibrate out of his skin. Lan Zhan, bless him, doesn’t let go of his hand until they’re granted an audience with the Empress to present themselves and bow.

“Your majesty,” Wei Ying murmurs, eyes cast downward. “Your humble servant, Wei Wuxian.”

The Bright Queen steps down from her dais to meet him. She is beautiful, her radiant skin, her towering crown. She is exactly as he remembers her. “Wei Wuxian,” she says solemnly. “Welcome home.”

Then, unfathomably, there is a roar of applause.

Wei Ying is painfully aware of his dirty leathers, his simple flute, his unkempt hair, but the gathered elders are still celebrating. He ducks his head again, a half-bow, only to have it raised by the Empress’ long fingers. She looks him in the eye while she speaks again. “Our heroes are returned to us,” she says to the throng. “They have retrieved a beacon of the Luxon from the far side of the enemy empire, and kept it from dangerous hands. Who will greet them in joy under the light?”

“I will,” calls out the Dusk Captain, from her place at the Bright Queen’s right hand. The response ripples through the crowd, sending his skin into goosebumps. “Welcome, brothers.”

It echoes in the cavernous hall, stealing Wei Ying’s very breath. He expected no acknowledgement at all, he realizes, no ceremony or recognition. He supposes he thought they’d hand over the beacon and he and Lan Zhan would just disappear for a few days, only reaching out once they’d done something stupid like elope (again). This is…this is the furthest from that it could possibly be. His throat is tight. He might weep. But he turns his head to the side and Lan Zhan is standing there, eyes soft, looking for all the world like Wei Ying is the only person in the room, smiling. _I am so proud of you_.

Wei Ying doesn’t weep. But it’s a very near thing.

Later, when the ceremony is over, when Wei Ying carries a seal of the Bright Queen in the pocket by his heart, Lan Zhan catches his hand and tugs him away. “Come with me,” he murmurs in Wei Ying’s ear, and Wei Ying sets down his wine. They steal away into Rohsona’s endless night without a word. Wei Ying can’t tell if they’ve been apart for hours or days. It feels like forever since he’s touched Lan Zhan like this, like they’re making a promise. Like the only thing keeping them from rutting in a darkened alley is Lan Zhan’s ironclad resolve. He follows Lan Zhan until they’re nearly running, careening headlong through every corner. Abruptly, the twists and turns are familiar to Wei Ying, and he laughs, running ahead until he’s at their own door. Lan Zhan is a breath behind.

“Here?” Wei Ying asks, but he knows the answer.

“Here,” Lan Zhan says anyway, and hands him an iron key.

Finally. Home. 

* * *

They bathe.

Lan Zhan claims it’s because removing the charm of disguise takes an hour of concentration, and Wei Ying might as well join him, if his joints still hurt from almost dying again yesterday. Wei Ying suspects that it’s simply because Lan Zhan wants to bathe with him, but either reason suits Wei Ying’s interests just fine, so he agrees.

The charm of disguise does take an hour to melt away, dropping with a quiet _thunk_ as it loosens from Lan Zhan’s left hand. Wei Ying, held tight to Lan Zhan’s chest, watches the browned skin disappear before his very eyes, until the arm stretched out in front of him is deep purple. Wei Ying hears his own breath catch.

“Mm?” asks Lan Zhan.

“Nothing,” Wei Ying lies, like a liar.

“Hm,” Lan Zhan says.

“Really, just—who decides what the disguise looks like?”

Lan Zhan moves, then, ever so gently, as if he needs to shift himself to the conversation. “The user,” he answers. “It is the work of your own attunement.”

Wei Ying tries to frown quietly.

“Wei Ying,” asks Lan Zhan.

“Would you want me to wear it? Now? Or, forever?”

“ _Wei Ying_ ,” sighs Lan Zhan. He catches Wei Ying’s hands and spends precious moments turning them to face each other, so that Wei Ying can’t look away from his _mouth_ when he says, “I have no need of a charm of disguise to want you, in any lifetime. For me, there is only Wei Ying.”

Suddenly the bath feels like ice. Wei Ying flicks his eyes back up to meet Lan Zhan’s. “By the _Gates_ , Lan Zhan, who _made you_ ,” he hisses, and splashes a considerable amount of water on the floor as he crashes into Lan Zhan’s mouth with his face. Lan Zhan simply wraps his arms around Wei Ying and stands up, lifting a knee to leave the basin. Wei Ying shuts his eyes and tries to remember the layout of their home, matching Lan Zhan’s steps with his own mind as he is carried to their bed. He’s only off by a hair.

He wonders if it’s strange, to accommodate all of these memories so quickly and feel only unerring gratitude. Many memories _have_ been painful; there is a sizable period missing yet, large enough and dense enough in timeline to be worrying. But none of it will keep him from the miracle of being _here_ , with Lan Zhan, _again_.

“I found you,” he breathes, as Lan Zhan deposits him on the mattress. He’s been watching Wei Ying’s mouth, but he flicks his eyes up.

“I am found,” Lan Zhan agrees solemnly. His hair is as white as the bedding. He’s so beautiful. Wei Ying is going to cry. Lan Zhan kisses him again, kneeling onto the bed, reaching behind Wei Ying to a clay pot on the bedside shelf. “Hold this, please.”

Wei Ying is not going to cry. He laughs and accepts the pot of slick, allowing Lan Zhan to maneuver him around the mattress until satisfied while he cradles it in his hands. His knees go over Lan Zhan’s shoulders, Lan Zhan’s hands on his hips and head between his thighs. Lan Zhan taps his left side. “In this hand, open, please. Here, on the bed.”

“So serious,” Wei Ying murmurs, but he removes the lid and cradles the pot in his upturned palm. The wanting in his belly is simmering over, a flush warming his chest and cheeks the longer Lan Zhan stares at him, and he feels pink all over already.

Lan Zhan hums and fits his mouth around the head of Wei Ying’s dick. Ah. _Ah_.

Wei Ying throws his head back, gasping up towards the moonlight. He threads his free hand into Lan Zhan’s hair, feels the blood pulsing hot at the cradle of his skull as he moves his head up and down. He feels electrified, the breeze catching on each droplet of water left on his body, zipping over his nerves until he worries he himself would catch flight but for the clutch of Lan Zhan’s mouth, the warm blunt fingers in Wei Ying’s arse. An anchor. A kite string.

“Thank you, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, voice rough, once he’s three fingers deep. “Will you put the pot away, now?”

Wei Ying nods, and sets it aside, fitting the lid on and everything. All problems in the world can be solved by pleasing Lan Zhan, he decides, as Lan Zhan starts to rearrange him again, pressing a reverent mouth to Wei Ying’s skin as they move.

“Here,” Lan Zhan says, and brings Wei Ying into his lap. Wei Ying goes, arms around Lan Zhan’s neck, held up by Lan Zhan’s wide, warm hands, and groans throatily as he’s guided down. “Slowly,” Lan Zhan whispers, into Wei Ying’s mouth. _Oh_.

The night before he left for the Empire, a century ago, they ran away to a cleric of the Luxon on Wei Ying’s insistence. Just the two of them and a doddering deep gnome—not even a witness. Wei Ying promised to come back and do it again in front of everyone, as soon as it was safe, but he couldn’t bear to leave without the laying of his claim, such as it was. To his great credit, Lan Zhan agreed immediately, and took him to Den Lan’s family shrine thereafter. They bowed before Lan Zhan’s ancestors, and Lan Zhan gave him a circlet of his own to wear, and Wei Ying wanted him so badly that when they made it to Lan Zhan’s home (their home, even then) he wouldn’t let go, not even to shed their clothes. Lan Zhan tore their robes apart, then held him in the center of the bed just like this.

 _For me, there is only Wei Ying_ , he said. Wei Ying can feel the truth of it in his bones. He holds on tighter.

They rock together gently, each rolling wave sending a thrill of pleasure down Wei Ying’s spine, little _ah-ah_ sounds coming out of his mouth as Lan Zhan sucks a bruise into the curve of his jaw. It feels transcendent. Wei Ying feels so alive.

And then, he comes.

He exhales and it turns into a laugh, so caught by surprise is he. Lan Zhan rocks into him, once, twice, then stills, breathing raggedly into Wei Ying’s neck. Wei Ying shivers and tries to draw Lan Zhan closer. They hang there, suspended in moonlight, for what feels like forever, and not nearly enough time at all.

“Okay,” he finally whispers, and Lan Zhan sucks in a breath, a wholly endearing and human sound. He comes back to himself under Wei Ying’s hands, applies himself to the tender rearranging of their limbs while Wei Ying dusts cleansing magic over them both.

Wei Ying needed the night in the inn, exactly as it was, all heat and teeth. But this night was for Lan Zhan, and there is something possessive and primeval inside Wei Ying that sings at knowing he _took_ it.

They lie there in the quiet. Wei Ying thinks about closing his eyes, but he can’t bear to look away from the slope of Lan Zhan’s top lip, so he concentrates on that instead.

“You said you thought you remembered my consecution,” he finally says. Lan Zhan has a hand high on the meat of Wei Ying’s rear, his thumb stroking over Wei Ying’s hip. The motion stops for a moment, then continues.

“The pledge to the Empress,” Lan Zhan says.

“ _Really?_ That seems...impulsive of her.”

“Mm,” agrees Lan Zhan. “Worrisome. But lucky, in this case. Other possible futures have less Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying smiles in spite of himself. “Big reward for a dragon’s sword,” he murmurs. “I feel so unworthy.”

Lan Zhan opens his eyes and squints down at Wei Ying. “Good return on investment,” he says in reply. “You brought her a beacon. And yourself. Irreplaceable, to me.” Gods, what a soft touch. Wei Ying is so gone for him. He kisses Lan Zhan’s shoulder, open-mouthed. “Wei Ying,” asks Lan Zhan, after a moment. “What did you choose, over this?”

Wei Ying drags himself back from the edge of rest, casting a net through his jumbled memories. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Making the pact. Taking the fey’s offer, accepting the seal. Wished I waited for you.”

For a moment, Lan Zhan is so _still_. “Wei Ying,” he breathes, and it means _thank you, I love you, don’t leave._ Wei Ying knows.

Still, some things are worth saying.

“I’m here,” he says, and pushes up on his elbow to punctuate it with a kiss. “I love you,” he says against Lan Zhan’s mouth. “Forever.”

“Acceptable terms,” murmurs Lan Zhan. Then, he is asleep.

Wei Ying watches him for just a little while, drinking in the sight of him. For the first time since he met Lan Zhan again, when Wei Ying curls close and falls asleep, he dreams, and it isn’t a memory at all. Just Lan Zhan, hand outstretched, leading him into their future.

Wei Ying goes.

**Author's Note:**

> A closing note on character class and Wildemount: 
> 
> Lan Zhan: Dark Elf Paladin of the Luxon, Oath of Devotion. Paladins, like clerics, choose their spells each day, and have access to the entire paladin spell list with limits on the number of spells they can prepare. I don't have an exact notion of how many levels he's taken in paladin by the time the story starts, but I think of him as somewhere around level 12 or 13. That tier before epic levels takes a long time to climb, and he isn't exactly getting XP or experiencing the emotional beats that would warrant a milestone level-up while he's pretending he's not waiting for Wei Ying to come back.
> 
> Lan Zhan uses fewer spells than Wei Ying, generally. When they were young, he often used his spell slots for _divine smite_ , pumping radiant damage into anything that looked like he might knock it off with a blow. When Wei Ying comes back, he often saves spell slots for _cure wounds_ , as his lay on hands healing pool is insufficient for the amount of trouble Wei Ying usually finds himself in by accident. He has several magic items on his person: Bichen is a _holy avenger_ , his circlet is a circlet of persuasion (paladins cast with Charisma, and while Lan Zhan is very compelling, any bonus is a good bonus), and he wears a +2 magic breastplate made of mithril and adamantine. 
> 
> Wei Ying (first life): Dark Elf Cleric of the Grave Domain/Pact of the Tome Warlock, Archfey Patron. I tried not to have him multi-class, but it ultimately felt like the right way to allude to the change wrought by the Stygian tiger amulet/loss of golden core without going into exhaustive detail. He's not terribly highly leveled when he dies—level 5 Cleric, level 3 Warlock—but that’s enough for the _inflict wounds_ he uses on the young dragon, and for the three eldritch invocations he uses in conflict with Jin Guangyao. The cleric levels also give him access to _sending_ , the third-level messaging spell that enables one to speak telepathically over great distances, including across planes of existence. 
> 
> Wei Ying (second life): Moon Elf Bard, College of Lore. Yes, I renamed _Bigby’s Hand_ to allude to the ripple effect of Vox Machina in Exandria after the battle to defeat Vecna. _I miss Scanlan_. I wanted this Wei Ying to be carefree and joyful, if a little detached from the world, so that he feels all the more connected when he finds Lan Zhan. He travels, adventures mostly alone, and he’s racked up the levels doing it, so he’s about level 9 here. Not so far behind Lan Zhan that they can’t hold their own in defense of one another, not so close that he approaches Lan Zhan’s level of cultivation. He is the Wei Ying I imagine at the end of CQL, mischief-making in Cloud Recesses to the fascinated horror of his son. Bards can use sending, and Wei Ying often inspires Lan Zhan in the field simply by swishing his hair. To my mind, this Wei Ying’s golden core is intact, as well, given the nature of magic and reincarnation in D&D. His magic items are a little more run-of-the-mill than Lan Zhan’s: he carries a _Heward’s Handy Haversack_ and his dizi’s stats are based on the rare Instruments of the Bards (although all of those are stringed). 
> 
> As for the rest:  
>  _Lan Sizhui_ : Cleric of the Luxon, Light Domain.  
>  _Wen Qing_ : Cleric of The Lawbearer, War Domain.  
>  _Wen Ning_ : Barbarian, Path of the Zealot.  
>  _Jin Guangyao_ : Pact of the Chain Warlock, Angel of Irons Patron.  
>  _Lan Xichen_ : Cleric of the Luxon, Order Domain.  
>  _Jiang Cheng_ : Fighter, Eldritch Knight.  
>  _Nie Huaisang_ : Wizard, School of Abjuration.  
>  _Nie Mingjue_ : Barbarian, Path of the Berserker.
> 
> Finally: I know that high and dark elves in 5th Edition D&D do not sleep (they meditate for 4 hours and are very handy in long rest watches). I elected to ignore this for a number of story-and-character reasons—please forgive the liberty with the rules. (For the record, Mercer’s description of relearning your own life explicitly mentions dreams, which I would not know except I’m rewatching the last ten episodes before Critical Role comes back and listening very closely.)
> 
> I have many, many thoughts about the way this version of Wildemount turned out. Please feel free to scream about them to me on Twitter: [@belle_abroad](https://twitter.com/belle_abroad)


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